We overpay to over-eat,
then we feverously attempt
to burn this excess.

To hide our gluttony,
we pay for the gym,
burning precious electricity.

To fit the mold,
of celebrities we pay to idolize,
we desperately lust for perfection.

This vicious cycle,
of over-indulgence combined with
expensive repercussions fuels our desire
to appear modest.

Its all a facade

Lipstick on filthy, putrid swine.
A silk tapestry gently lain
on a steaming pile of ****.

You live in a house of cards,
tread lightly, or it'll all collapse.

A flickering illumination in a damp-aired room.
This lonely, glowing aura is the centerpiece of a dark abyss.
Crevices of this dungeon hide walls adourned with filth.
Suddently, wax drips from the candle reverberating an eerie echo.
This startles the only creature thriving in this everlasting, sinister darkness.

Awakened by the cease in silence and intriguied by the flame,
The moth leaves the safety of darkness and innocently begins to fly.
As he gently flutters towards the flame the moth feels something foreign --warmth.
Instinct tells him to continue flapping towards this otherwordly glow.
As if blind from birth and finally given sight, the moth now feels alive.

The combination of heat and light is addicting, he carniverously lusts for more.
Once innocent, the moth has now been corrupted by sheer ectasy.
Now, ceremoniously circling the flame basking in its heavenly glory.
Drunken with greed, the moth hastily swoops within inches of the flame.
A snakelike hiss consumes the room. --Darkness.

Its ravenous haste extinguished its short-lived salvation.
Now, cold as one-thousand winters, the moth can only dream of his lost savior
It can only wish that it had gone up in flames along with the candle now. . .
that pain would last a millisecond.

This pain is eternal.

Restless leaves snarl in turmoil.
Unitentional violence however,
its merely the omnipotence of wind.

But now,
perfectly still sits an intricate statue.

How soon these throrned branches forget,
how powerless they will become. . .

-AB

My life's a paradox, in a melting ***
Been struggling to connect the dots.

That's the reason why I dance
when the music stops.

Jamming to the rhymes in my head
when the beat drops.

I'll drink a tall glass of pride
with a twist of lime.

With a fake smile,
and the guise of fine.

I remember when life wasn't just a painting.
When love was alive and dreams had dimension.

Now this still-life landscape is an eternal winter.
The snow doesn't sparkle and memories are forgotten.

Maybe one day the brushstrokes will cease,
maybe the artist will break free
from his imprisoned canvas.

'Til that day I'm stuck in his apathetic craft. . .

The wind and cold took a toll on his soul,
now this trash-can fire burns black like coal.

Wrinkles run deep, as if chiseled in stone.
His tattered clothes desperately need sewn.

By now austerity is his only friend,
and has seen too much pain to comprehend.

His sternly watches the passers-by
But they're too scared to look him eye-to-eye

Hes an animal trapped in this concrete zoo,
laughter is foreign and time is askew.

Now it seems so clear they lied

They told him he'd be a hero and a legend.
But his veteran's parade is still just pretend. . .

Chaotic roots hold true and stoic.
Green, passive life climbs.

...somehow thriving via this *****, desolate lifeline.

And to think,
all its wants is to reach the sun.

We just won't let this fire die.

As soon as it starts to smolder,
either you get lonely or I get drunk.

And this whole ******* forest,
is once again engulfed.

I desperately try to put it out
but, my words are water on a grease fire

. . .and we both get burnt.

I work so hard
just to remind you I exist.

Please don't forget
because we could be something.